After the Fall
by Fall-san
Summary: As hopeless as John feels after Sherlock's death, no one is more regretful than Mycroft.


**After the Fall**

"I'm going to kill him!" John yelled as he pushed back black-garbed passers-by. Grabbing Mycroft by the collar, John held the taller man's face close, anger and pain and desperateness in his clouded blue eyes.

"Why did you do it?! You killed him! You killed your own brother!" he shouted as tears fell from his eyes. Ms Hudson held a hand to her mouth in shock, crying as well

As other men from around the cemetery came to pull John off of the other man, Mycroft swallowed thickly and looked down at the ex-military officer with an unreadable expression. "I'm sorry." he said, stepping back from the hurt and vengeful man. "I'm so sorry." he said, glancing between John and the gravestone at his feet.

With those seemingly emotionless words, the older Holmes brother left the scene quickly, not wanting to be victim to anymore of John's threats and curses. But of course, in doing so, he would only make himself victim of his own threats and curses.

Stepping quickly into his black car, Mycroft took a deep breath to try and calm down. He couldn't get those damned words out of his head...

_"Watch my brother, John, watch him because I made a mistake and he may die because of it?!"_

_"What did you do?!"_

_"You killed your own brother!"_

__Taking a deep breath, Mycroft rubbed at his eyes with his gloved hands and swallowed thickly once again. The worst part about those words was that they were all true. He had killed his brother. He'd given Moriarty every weapon he needed to defeat Sherlock, and he'd only realized his mistake after he'd made it. He'd contacted John to protect his brother, but he knew it would never be enough. He knew eventually his brother would die. And it drove him mad that there was no way to protect him.

The worst part about it all was that he had never had a good relationship with Sherlock. His little brother had always hated him, and Mycroft could never tell him that wasn't how _he_ felt. He never got the chance to tell Sherlock that he loved him, that he never meant to do anything so stupid to his brother. Mycroft felt like he hadn't only just let John and Ms Hudson down, but he'd let down the whole world.

People who could've been saved so easily by Sherlock would now die because the genius wasn't there to figure it out in a matter of minutes.

Sighing softly, Mycroft got out of the car when he arrived at his house, pulling out his phone. He never texted Sherlock. Not until his brother died.

Pulling up an entirely one-sided conversation, Mycroft scrolled through thousands upon thousands of apologies from himself to his dead brother's cell phone. Every form of the word "I'm sorry" was in those texts. And he could keep texting his dead brother, but it would do him no good, because he would never get a reply. Never get anything. Not even an "I hate you" in response to every apology he gave.

Pulling off his coat, scarf, and gloves, Mycroft retreated upstairs to his room and sat down on his bed with his phone in hand. He sat down on his bed with a sigh and looked around his room, but not yet at his phone.

In those moments, John packed his final bags and said his sad goodbyes to 221B

Ms Hudson stood in front of Sherlock's grave before setting down the man's cell phone on top of the headstone and walking away.

Sally Donovan sat at her desk staring blankly at a stack of papers, wishing her warnings to John had been incorrect

Molly Hooper affectionately held the famed 'Sherlock Hat' in her hands with a small _knowing_ smile.

Mycroft spent the rest of the day, thinking of one last text to send, one last thing to say before he let go. Before he tried to move on. He thought as he worked, thought as he ate, he thought of things he could say for every single breath he took. But when it came right down to the actual moment of saying goodbye, he could only say one thing.

Staring at the cell phone on his dresser, Mycroft reached out a shaky hand, slow and hesitant. He didn't want to say goodbye. He didn't want to say goodbye to Sherlock. He wanted his brother there again. He wanted that asshole show-off to make fun of him again and call him an idiot and do whatever it was that he did, just as long as he was _there_.

Every press of the button on Mycroft's cell phone had the man's throat closing as tears welled up in his eyes. He could never forgive himself for what he did to his brother. Never forgive himself for dooming the most –morally- innocent man there was. Mycroft could never forgive himself for condemning his baby brother.

Choking back sobs, Mycroft sent one final text before stowing his phone atop his nightstand, and burying himself in the covers of his bed.

The text read; _"I love you,"_

Try as he might, he couldn't sleep until well past midnight, and even then he was restless.

Restless as visions of a familiar hand trailed fingers along stone, carved to mark a grave. As those fingers picked up an even more familiar cell phone and brought it out of view. The owner of the hand and cell phone walked away from the headstone as Mycroft let out a sigh, and finally fell into a deep sleep.

Though the night was not still. Mycroft's own phone, after moments of suspenseful silence, lit up and gave a soft ding, showing on the screen a text. A text from an otherwise dead phone came through, and the words had an amused air to them, as if the sender was quietly laughing at the older Holmes brother.

_"I know you do, idiot."_ Sherlock sent, then slipped his cell phone into his pocket before walking away from the cemetery with a grin.


End file.
